


What he Wants

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Shot, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Fantasy, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 00:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18905551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: Sherlock Holmes always gets what he wants, and what he wants is John Watson.





	What he Wants

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [То, что он хочет](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19764274) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



Sherlock Holmes has never needed anyone.

Correction. Sherlock Holmes has never needed anyone in more than a professional sense. He needs clients. He tolerates Lestrade. He grudgingly admits to needing Mycroft now and again. But he’s never needed anyone in the social sense, in the sentimental sense. In the completely unexpected and baffling way he needs John Watson. He needs John the way a drowning man needs air.

***

Sherlock Holmes has never wanted anyone.

Never. Not the girls who followed him around at school, “brainy is the new sexy.” He wanted nothing to do with them. Not the boys, and later the men, who shared his bed from time to time in sterile, sentiment-free encounters. But he wants John. From the beginning, he’d felt it. From that first time the ex-soldier walked into the lab of St. Bart’s. He saw the confident stride hidden under the psychosomatic limp and the simmering flame of a danger-junkie behind those calm, ocean coloured eyes. Felt the electric pulse of _possibility_ zip down his spine.

***

Sherlock Holmes always gets what he wants.

Almost always. From a young age, he learned to manipulate the other kids and grown-ups to get what he wanted. He could flatter and lie better than most. Better than Mycroft even. His big brother was smarter, but Sherlock was smoother. The biggest piece of cake? Best price on a vial of morphine? Inside information from the idiots at New Scotland Yard. Easy peasy.

Yet this prize remained just out of reach. John was not easy, peasy. John was “yes, of course, we’ll be needing two bedrooms,” and “I’m not his date.” John would call Sherlock out on his manipulation. Sherlock weighed his options carefully, because that is how his brain works, logical and methodical, and his brain told him that John might run. He found this risk unacceptable. And so, Sherlock waited. And wanted.  
It was maddening.

The work was better with John there. A counterbalance to his abrasiveness, a voice of reason in the face of his excesses. Someone always up for the adrenaline rush of the chase, and someone to share the joy of success. It was good, it was better than good, and maybe it was enough.

Life was better with John there. Sometimes in the morning, when John would come out of the bathroom in his robe, wet and clean from his shower, his hair damp, smile broad and genuine, with the promise of a new day, a new case, in front of them, it took all of Sherlock’s considerable self-discipline not to act. Not to put his hands the sides of John’s face and lick the drop of water from the end of his nose. To pull him close and smell the soap-clean skin. To feel that strong, soldier body against his own. Sherlock would think of this as he sat pretending to look into his microscope, and John sat in his chair with a mug of coffee and the newspaper.

***

Sherlock Holmes always gets what he wants.

Always.

The sun is just rising, and the room is dim. Sherlock has been awake for half an hour. He lies still, watching. Watching John sleep. He’s on his stomach, his head on one forearm, breathing even and deep, and Sherlock watches the rise and fall of his back. It’s hypnotic.

A ray of sunlight illuminates the scar, shiny and gnarled and beautiful. John doesn’t think it's beautiful, he considers it a reminder of his mortality, and his failure. To Sherlock, it’s a symbol of his strength, loyalty, and bravery. He kissed that scar last night. Ran his tongue over the raised flesh as if trying to taste the long-gone pain, to learn it, to take some of it into himself.

***

Yesterday, a challenging case solved brilliantly led to public celebration and praise. At home at Baker Street, afterwards, with adrenaline high still raging, they drank wine and laughed about the case, about the cluelessness of the authorities, the mistakes the thief had made and argued about what John would name it when it was chronicled in his blog.

“The Case of the Brilliant Detective?” Sherlock suggested.

“Very funny. I was thinking, “The Case of the Lavender Sachet.”

Sherlock hadn’t meant to. He really hadn’t, but he couldn’t help it. The force that was pulling him toward potential disaster couldn’t be stopped. The moment seemed right, inevitable even. So, he had leaned over and kissed John as they stood before the fire.

John had tensed, then relaxed into his touch. He hadn’t pulled away or shouted. He kissed back. _He kissed back_. He kissed back, and his lips were warm and yielding, and they tasted of wine. They tasted of wine, and the kiss felt like everything Sherlock had ever imagined it would, and he desperately wanted the moment to last, knowing it couldn’t possibly. Finally, John pulled back, and Sherlock braced himself for the rebuke.

Instead, those dark blue eyes were fixed on him with an expression he couldn’t read, and neither of them spoke. The silence stretched out between them like a chasm that was growing wider by the second, and Sherlock rushed to fill it with words, to pull John back to him.

“John, I… I know that was unexpected. I should have asked. I should have told you. Was that all right? I’m an idiot—"

“Yes.”

"Yes, what?"

“Yes to all of it, mostly the part about it being all right.”

He felt John’s fingers slip around his hand, and he willed himself to stop trembling.

“Oh, John.”

“I’d like to try that again.” John’s eyes were soft.

Then in an instant, John was in his arms, and it felt like falling or flying, or both. They kissed in front of the blazing fire, with the skull on the mantel as a silent witness. John’s lips parted to let Sherlock’s tongue slide in, and he sighed into his mouth, a small exhalation that answered the unspoken question. _More?_

Sherlock’s hands travelled up John’s back, feeling the solid muscles under his jumper until they came to rest in John’s hair as he explored with his lips, wanting to taste every bit of him. As he placed a soft kiss on the flesh just below John’s ear, he felt hands tugging his shirt out of his trousers then slide under it to caress the bare skin of his back, bringing up goosebumps.

“Sherlock,” breathed John into his neck as he nibbled along his jaw and Sherlock pulled him closer, pushing his hips forward and feeling his cock growing full and hard against John’s stomach. He groaned and found John’s mouth again, bending to reach him as John rose up on his toes.

John’s body was radiating heat, or maybe it was the fire, but it was too warm, and there were too many layers between them. Sherlock grasped the hem of the jumper and vest and pulled them up and over John’s head before letting them drop to the floor. John didn’t resist.

Sherlock backed up a step and swept his eyes over his shirtless flatmate. Standing there in just his jeans with the flickering light of the flames making his golden chest hairs glitter, he looked magnificent, sexy, and utterly irresistible. _My John._ Sherlock reached out and placed a finger on John’s bottom lip, then traced the line of his jaw to his shoulder, then down his chest, and paused to circle the peaked nipple. When John drew in a sharp breath, Sherlock glanced up, to make sure he was still on board, then continued to watch his finger as it travelled slowly down the middle of John’s stomach following the trail of hair to the waistband of his jeans. Slipping his finger inside, he pulled John toward him until they were inches apart, close enough to feel each other’s shallow breaths.

“Is this OK, John?”

“No. No, it’s not OK,” John said, shaking his head.

“Oh!” Sherlock drew back his hand.

John smiled impishly, “It’s not OK that you’ve still got your shirt on.” Reaching up, John began to unbutton each button of Sherlock’s shirt with excruciating deliberateness. When they were all undone, he picked up each hand in turn and unbuttoned the cuffs. He pushed the shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders, and it joined the jumper on the floor, crumpled and immediately forgotten. In unison, they moved forward, and Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around John. They stood there for an endless moment, enjoying the intimate feeling of skin against skin. He could feel the beat of John’s heart, a steady thrumming against his bare stomach, and his own pulse pounding in his ears as he pressed his lips to the top of John’s head.

“Did you know?”

“Yeah, I knew, but I wasn’t ready. Needed to work through some things in my head.”

“And have you?”

“Mostly. Enough anyway. Enough for this.”

The soft, wet sensation of open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone made Sherlock gasp as he closed his eyes and dissolved into John’s touch.

They had ended up in Sherlock’s bed, in their underwear, and both understood that they were just going to hold one another, to kiss and explore and get used to this new dimension of their relationship. To try it on and see if it fit. It did, and Sherlock slept. Slept like he hadn’t slept in years. John’s body near to him, touching him, always touching, was a balm soothing his mind. He didn’t get up to pace or play his violin, he didn’t stare at the ceiling, he didn’t obsess. He just slept.

***

As Sherlock watches John breathe, his lips quirk up in a smile. The sun is fully up now, and its rays stream through the window and fall across John’s freckled shoulders. Sherlock wants to kiss those freckles and bury his face in his neck, inhaling the morning muskiness of him. His own breath comes a little quicker, and he shifts and slides his hand down beneath the covers to rest on his hard cock. Right now, he’s content just to stroke himself as he watches John sleep. He drags his fingers lazily up and down the length of his erection through the cotton of his boxers as he thinks about what he wants to do, what he really wants to do. What he cannot stop thinking about. What he _absolutely_ must keep himself from doing – for now. Sherlock wants to cover John with his body, kiss him hard, pin him to the bed and take him. He imagines what it would feel like to slide hot and slick into his body. John would be tight, so tight. _My John_. To have those muscled legs wrapped around him, to hear his name whispered in breathless gasps, begging him for it…

“Sherlock?”

He’s startled out of his fantasy and opens his eyes to see John looking at him, grinning.

“Thinking about me, I hope?”

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock says, heat rising in his cheeks. “How are you feeling?”

“When I woke up, I thought this had all been a dream, a bloody good dream. But I’m really here, in your bed, and I’m…” He laughs. “Hell, I don’t even know where to start except that…I want to kiss you."

“I won’t stop you.”

And then John’s lips are crushed against his, and he feels fingers sliding through his hair. The heat of John’s body is against his, on top of him. _Christ!_ The sensual, but unfulfilled eroticism of last night, the happiness of having John next to him, sleeping beside him, touching him. It was enough last night in the cool darkness. He had been so surprised and so satisfied to have John next to him, that it was enough, it was more than he’d hoped for.

But now, now with the morning light pouring over them, with John kissing him, grinding against him. It is so fucking real, and so overwhelming.

“Johhhn.” He practically purrs the word. It is a question, a prayer, and something a long time coming that he can no longer control. This surprises him— that he’s losing control, but he finds he doesn’t care.

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes.”

John’s lips are on the shell of his ear, and these words, murmured low, slide like silk across his skin with his breath.

With a groan, Sherlock pushes and twists, reversing their positions so that John is beneath him. He grasps John’s wrists and holds them to the mattress.

“I want you, John.”

“I know Sherlock, I want you—”

Before he can finish, Sherlock covers his mouth with his own. He tastes like morning breath, but it doesn’t matter. Not at all. John’s morning breath is wonderful, it’s sexy, it’s everything. Still pinning John’s wrists, he moves his lips across the stubbled cheeks, kissing his jawline, his earlobe. Sucking.

“John, do you know what I want to do to you? Someday? Soon I hope.”

“Hmmm, tell me.”

“I want to fuck you. I want to be inside you and feel you around me. I want to watch you come with my cock in your arse.”

“Shit, Sherlock, you don’t mince words.” He chuckles. “What if I said I want to fuck _you_?”

Sherlock moans softly, “I’d like that too.”

He moves down to take one of John’s nipples into his mouth, sucking gently as John arches up into him. John tries to move his hands, but Sherlock’s grip on his wrists tightens. He flicks the bud with his tongue then bites and John rolls his hips, pressing his erection into Sherlock’s thigh.

When he finally releases his wrists to move lower, John’s hands immediately go to his hair, caressing his scalp. It feels good, and Sherlock wonders how John knows he like his hair petted. He plants kisses down the soft belly until he reaches the head of John’s cock peeking out from the waistband of his boxers.

A bead of pre-come is leaking from the tip and Sherlock laps at it. It’s tangy and delicious, and it’s part of John, and so of course, he wants more. He feels fingers tighten in his hair as he slides down the boxers to expose John’s penis. It’s thick and long, and Sherlock feels his own erection twitch as it slides over his tongue and down his throat.

John utters an oath as Sherlock begins to move.

***

John’s head rests on his shoulder, and their legs are tangled together in the sheets which only half cover them. Sherlock is smoking, and surprisingly, John hasn't objected to this. The sun has risen in the sky and its past time for breakfast. Sherlock can hear the growling of John’s stomach.

“I’ve been afraid of this.” John begins.

“Why.”

“Because of what might change between us.”

“Nothing has to change,” Sherlock says, blowing out a stream of smoke and watching it curl above them in a sunbeam before dissipating.

“I just came down your throat, Sherlock, and it was fucking great, and I don’t think this is a one-time thing. At least I hope not. But, it’s just… Well, I’ve had a lot of lovers in my life, and none of them has worked out long term. What you and I have, our friendship…I don’t need to tell you that you saved my life.”

“And you’ve saved mine.”

“What I’m trying to say is that I don’t want to lose you. And if I had to choose between having you as a friend and having you as a lover but then losing you—”

“John. You are not going to lose me.” Sherlock places a kiss on John’s forehead. I’ve waited for you. I’ve been patient, and you know that’s not my strong suit. Now that I have you, I’m not going to let you go. We’ll figure it out. I promise."

John’s lips seek his, and the world fades again as they revel in the feeling of closeness, and the joy of intimacy, of skin on skin, of fingers in hair, and of wet, hot mouths that still taste of come.


End file.
